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  WHITE WIG

  Gerald Verner

  © Gerald Verner 1935

  © Chris Verner 2016

  Gerald Verner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1935 by F. A. Thorpe.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1 - The Last Passenger

  2 - A Client for Mr. Rivington

  3 - Three White Hairs

  4 - The Man with Red Hair

  5 - Fresh News

  6 - The Second Name

  7 - The Reason

  8 - Harry Mace’s Record

  9 - The Female Passenger

  10 - Emily Boulter, Laundress

  11 - The Onyx Ring

  12 - News from America

  13 - ‘Z4’

  14 - The Setback

  15 - Attempted Murder

  16 - Emily Boulter’s Story

  17 - A Job for Bob

  18 - The Club in Soho

  19 - The Crippled Man

  20 - The House at Dulwich

  21 - Paul Gets Anxious

  22 - Bob’s Ordeal

  23 - Paul Gets Busy

  24 - Buried Alive

  25 - Just In Time

  26 - The Vigil

  27 - White Wig

  28 - The Black Diary

  29 - Last Words

  1

  The Last Passenger

  In spite of the rain and hail and the wild soughing of the wind, the bus steadily breasted the hill that runs from Southend Pond to the London Road and leads eventually into Bromley North. Harry Mace, the driver, had great difficulty in keeping the machine from skidding, and was feeling heartily glad that he had nearly reached the end of the journey and the day’s work. Every now and again he had to shake his head to clear his eyes from the hail that the wind dashed into his face over the screen. At times the force was so strong that the little pieces of frozen rain cut into the skin, making it smart and burn.

  He was glad that his friend, Dick Lonsdale, was less exposed on the conductor’s platform, for Dick had had a bad time in the upheaval that people called the Great War, and had been far from well during the past two days.

  The bus was a ‘pirate’, plying for hire between Charing Cross and Bromley Common, and owned jointly by Mace and Lonsdale. The two men had fought together in Flanders, and a friendship that had started in a welter of blood and mud had continued after demobilisation and eventually led to the purchase of the Blue Moon. They had called it this in memory of a certain little café near Ypres, where they had met for the first time.

  Through Bromley North with its quaint old Market Place, now almost obliterated by the driving rain, the motor-bus crawled; down the incline, past Bromley South Station, round the bend, and up the slope of Mason’s Hill. It had reached the top of the rise when Dick decided to brave the storm of hail and rain and reverse the boards on the front, in readiness for the morning journey. It was an open-topped, old-fashioned bus, and it was a habit of his to do so at this stage of the route, and in spite of the weather he almost mechanically went through his usual procedure.

  He ran up the steps, and as he reached the top an unusually heavy gust of wind made him stagger and grip the rail. As he recovered his balance he saw the solitary outside passenger rise and move towards him. Guessing that he was about to alight, Dick rang the bell and stood on one side for the old man to pass. He wished him good night as he groped his way down the steps, but the old man made no reply. Perhaps he was a little deaf, thought Dick, and after waiting to give him sufficient time to get off, he gave a double ring for Mace to proceed.

  The bus started with a slight jerk that almost caused Dick to lose his balance. He retained his feet, however, by clutching at the nearest seat, and as the bus got going he began to walk unsteadily towards the front. Without any particular reason, his thoughts turned to the solitary passenger who had just left. Dick put him down as being a trifle eccentric, for there was no reason why he should have continued to occupy an outside seat on such a night.

  He had boarded the bus at Charing Cross, just as it was on the point of departure. It had been fairly full then, and Dick had felt rather reluctant to send the old man upstairs. At Lewisham Obelisk, however, several people had got off, and he had taken the trouble to go up and tell the old man that there was room inside. All he had received in reply was a grunt. Seeing that the solitary passenger apparently preferred the discomforts of the wet exterior to the comparative dryness of the interior, Dick had left him alone and gone back to his platform.

  From this passenger in particular, his thoughts turned to the peculiarities of passengers in general as he leaned over the front of the swaying bus and tugged at the indicator boards. They fitted into two iron slots, and, probably owing to the wood having swollen with the wet had stuck, and in spite of his most strenuous efforts he was unable to shift them. He banged and thumped and pulled without result. The boards refused to move.

  At that moment the bus reached Homesdale Road, and at a jerk of the bell from a passenger below it came to a standstill. Dick Lonsdale was rather glad of the respite, for the movement of the bus and the buffeting of the wind were both factors that had contributed to his unsuccessful attempts to move the boards. Now getting a grip with both hands, he managed, after a series of jerks and thumps, to free them. By the time he had done this, the bus had been standing nearly a minute, and he hastily stamped twice for Mace to proceed. It was useless trying to re-insert the boards until they had dried, so he laid them under one of the seats and made his way downstairs, glad to be under shelter once more. Glancing inside the bus, he saw that only one passenger remained, and he was apparently dozing, for his head had dropped forward on his chest as though the storm had acted as a soporific and lulled him to sleep.

  The woman who had been the only other inside passenger must have got off at Homesdale Road. She had been rather a queer customer. In spite of her dress, she had looked more like a man than a woman, and a rather sinister-looking man at that. Tall, gaunt, and angular, with a weather-beaten face and iron grey hair, little wisps of which had blown free from her confining hat, she had boarded the bus at the Obelisk and plumped herself down in the seat next to the door. Owing to her enormous height, her feet had reached to the centre of the gangway, and to Dick’s astonishment had been encased in a pair of men’s hobnailed boots. They had been so huge and ungainly that they held his attention with an almost eerie fascination The woman had a bag full of provisions by her side, and in her hand a heavy stick that ended in a clumsy knob. Dick had put her down as one of the many gipsies in the district.

  It was one of Dick’s hobbies to study the various passengers who travelled on the Blue Moon, and very interesting he found it. It helped to break the monotony of collecting fares, and passed the time. He was still ruminating about the extraordinary-looking woman when they reached the Dairy Farm, and he had to force his mind away from that strange individual and attend to the usual odd jobs that had to be done before leaving the bus for the night.

  Harry Mace gave a sigh of relief as he pulled up in front of the Barley Mow. It has been a tiring run, but now there only remained a quarter of a mile’s drive to Merrion’s Riding School, where the bus was garaged, and then the short walk with Dick to his mother’s house, where there would be the certainty of hot coffee and a square meal.

  The wind was still for a moment, and Mace heard his friend’s call: ‘All change, please!’ He waited for the usual signal to run the empty bus up the road to the garage, but the signal never came. Instead he heard a smothered cry from inside the bus and the sound of stumbling footsteps coming round the side. Looking down from the height of his
driving seat, he gazed into the white, upturned face of his friend.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked anxiously as he swung himself out of the seat under the mackintosh cover and descended into the streaming roadway. ‘Feeling queer?’

  Dick shook his head, and without speaking beckoned Mace towards the back of the bus. With his hand on the rail and his foot on the step, he seemed to regain both his composure and his speech.

  ‘Come inside,’ he said a trifle huskily. ‘Something odd has happened.’ He led the way up the gangway, followed by Mace, and stopped within a few feet of the front seat.

  The solitary passenger still sat there, one arm hanging limply down by his side. He was a man of about seventy, and the cut of his clothes and the large horn-rimmed glasses he wore suggested that he was an American. Very still he sat, with his head drooping on his breast.

  ‘Let me look at him,’ broke in Harry, pushing his friend aside. ‘It may be a heart attack.’ He stooped over the motionless figure on the seat and opened the coat. ‘Good God!’ His voice rose to an unnatural shrillness as he turned a frightened face to Dick. ‘He’s been shot!’

  2

  A Client for Mr. Rivington

  Mr. Paul Rivington laid down his pen, blotted the page he had just written, and read it through. The big desk was littered with sheets of manuscript, and when he had digested the contents of the one he held in his hand he collected the others together and fastened them with a paper clip.

  ‘That’s another chapter done, Bob,’ he remarked, rising with a sigh of relief and lighting a cigarette.

  His brother looked up from the paper he was reading. ‘How many more are there to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Fourteen,’ answered Paul, trickling smoke luxuriantly through his nostrils. ‘If things remain quiet, I ought to be able to get them finished this week.’

  He had been approached by a well-known firm of publishers to write a book on unsolved crimes with his own suggested solutions. The idea had appealed to him, and certainly there were few people more capable of the task, for Paul Rivington had made a life study of criminology.

  ‘I wish something would happen to break the monotony,’ Bob grunted as he threw aside the newspaper. ‘I’m getting tired of this life of ease.’

  Paul Rivington smiled. ‘That bus murder threatened at one time to be interesting,’ he said. ‘But now they’ve arrested the conductor, it seems to have petered out.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they’ve got the right man,’ said Bob. ‘The whole business seems rummy to me, though.’

  ‘You can depend that the police have got fairly good evidence against Lonsdale,’ said his brother, ‘or they wouldn’t have arrested him. They’re always very careful in a murder case.’ He broke off as there came a tap on the door and a maid entered.

  ‘There’s a young lady wants to see you, sir,’ she announced.

  Paul took the card she held out on the salver and glanced at the inscription. ‘Ask Miss Denver to come up,’ he said, and as the maid withdrew, ‘Perhaps our quiet time is over.’

  Bob grunted. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Most likely she’s lost her pet dog or mislaid her young man.’

  ‘Don’t be pessimistic,’ said Paul with a smile, ‘and don’t forget that one of the most dangerous and exciting cases we ever had started with a lady who had lost her pekinese.’

  The woman whom the servant presently ushered into the room made Bob swing round in his chair with sudden interest. She was small and slim — dainty was the description that flashed through his mind — and she carried herself with a grace that is not often seen nowadays. Her hair framed a face that was almost a perfect oval, and her head was just sufficiently tilted to add piquancy to her expression. Sally Denver would have merited a second glance even among a crowd of pretty women.

  She came into the room with perfect coolness and self-possession. ‘It’s very good of you to see me, Mr. Rivington,’ she said, and the detective, who was a great believer in the character of voices, took an instant liking to this woman’s gentle, well-modulated speech. ‘I suppose really I should have made an appointment?’

  ‘It’s quite unnecessary,’ said Paul, pushing forward a chair. ‘We only inflict appointments on our clients when we’re very busy. Please sit down.’ He introduced his brother as Sally sank into the chair he indicated. ‘Now what can I do to help you?’

  ‘You’ve heard of the murder that happened the night before last?’ she said. ‘The one that was committed on the motor-bus?’

  ‘I’ve read what the newspapers say about it,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, the conductor of the bus is my fiancé,’ she said.

  Paul looked quickly across at Bob and raised his eyebrows. Sally saw the swift interchange of glances and raised her eyes to his face enquiringly.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ she asked.

  ‘Merely because we were talking about the bus murder when you arrived,’ answered Paul.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ she said coolly. ‘If you’re already interested in the matter, my task will be less difficult. The police, as you know, have arrested Dick for the murder of this man, and — well, Mr. Rivington, he didn’t do it, that’s all.’

  A slight smile curved Paul’s thin lips. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And I suppose you want me to prove that he didn’t?’

  She nodded. ‘I want you to try,’ she corrected him.

  ‘Before I promise anything, I’d like to know a little more about the case. To be quite candid, Miss Denver, the police don’t arrest men and charge them with murder unless they have a very good reason, and I see in the papers that the driver has been detained as well. Suppose, before I say definitely whether I will take up the matter or not, you tell me all you know about the affair?’

  ‘I’m willing to do that,’ said Sally quickly. ‘Though I know very little — except that Dick is innocent. The man who was shot was an American named William Hooper, and he had been dead for not more than a quarter of an hour when the bus arrived at the Barley Mow. If the murder was committed by someone travelling on the bus — and that seems fairly certain — it limits the assassin to one of four persons: Dick, Harry Mace the driver, and a male and a female passenger.’

  ‘That seems fairly clear,’ agreed Paul. ‘Were both the passengers on the bus at the time the police doctor says that the murder must have been committed?’

  ‘Nobody seems to be quite certain of that,’ answered Sally. ‘Although the dead man had been shot no longer than a quarter of an hour before the crime was discovered, the shot could have been fired any time within that period.’

  ‘I see,’ said Rivington thoughtfully. ‘The other two passengers — the man and the woman — weren’t on the bus when it reached the end of the route, were they?’

  ‘No,’ answered Sally.

  ‘Where did they alight?’ asked the detective.

  ‘The man, who travelled outside, got off at the top of Mason’s Hill,’ she replied, ‘and it seems hardly possible that he could have been the murderer unless the woman was acting in collusion with him, because she didn’t get off the bus until after — at Homesdale Road.’

  ‘I presume Lonsdale saw both these people leave the bus?’ said Paul, but she shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she answered. ‘He didn’t see the outside passenger get off, because he was upstairs changing the indication board, and he didn’t get down to his platform again until after the bus had passed Homesdale Road and the woman had alighted.’

  ‘Then he didn’t see either of them leave the bus?’

  ‘No. When he got downstairs again after changing the boards, Hooper was the only passenger left, and he must have already been dead.’ She paused, and Paul rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘He must have been unless Mace or Lonsdale is guilty,’ he said, and then as he saw the look of pain that came to Sally’s eyes, ‘You mustn’t mind me saying that, Miss Denver. If I am to help you, it must be with the strict understanding that I keep an open mind, and that sh
ould I discover any evidence against Lonsdale I shall be as free to put it at the disposal of the police as if it were in his favour. In other words, I cannot guarantee to suppress anything I may find out.’

  She was silent for a moment, watching the toe of her shoe as it moved restlessly on the carpet, and then she raised her head. ‘I’m quite agreeable to that, Mr. Rivington,’ she said steadily, ‘because I am quite convinced that Dick is innocent.’

  ‘Of course,’ Paul went on, ‘if I take up the case I shall start my investigation with the assumption that Lonsdale is innocent. Now, is there anything else you have to tell me?’

  ‘Yes.’ For the first time her voice faltered, and she seemed to find some difficulty in choosing her words.

  ‘What is it?’ he prompted her gently. ‘Don’t keep anything back.’

  ‘It would be no use even if I wanted to. It will be public property this evening, and anyway the police would tell you. It’s just this, Mr. Rivington, and it’s the worst piece of evidence against Dick that has come to light. The morning after the murder, that is yesterday, a man mending the road at the corner of Homesdale Road picked up a revolver. It had one empty chamber, and the name, Harry Mace, was scratched on the barrel.’

  Rivington’s face was very grave as she finished speaking. ‘That’s rather bad,’ he murmured. ‘So that’s why they detained Mace too.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I believe that was the reason.’

  ‘You said just now that the finding of this revolver was the worst piece of evidence against Lonsdale. So far as I can see, it seems to point to Mace as the guilty man.’

  ‘I hadn’t quite finished,’ Sally said quietly. ‘The police questioned Mr. Mace about it, but he only said that he couldn’t understand how it got there. Afterwards they questioned Dick, and asked him if he knew that Mace possessed a revolver.’

  ‘What did Lonsdale say?’ asked the detective as she paused.